Duched (Duched #1) Read online

  Duched

  Xavier Neal

  Duched #1

  Duched

  Duched #1

  By Xavier Neal

  ©Xavier Neal 2016

  Cover by Angie Merriam

  All Rights Reserved

  License Note

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization of the Author. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in court of law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication: To The Universe...Thanks for letting me feel like royalty in my own way.

  Note From The Author:

  This book breaks the 'fourth wall', meaning it talks TO the reader. The bold italics portions are the character speaking to “YOU”.

  Hope you enjoy.

  -Xavier

  Kellan

  “It was just a game of strip poker. It is not as if I married a stripper.”

  That I could understand my older brother flipping out about.

  “You couldn't have just closed the curtains?” He huffs. “The damn curtains, Kellan!”

  “I could have, but then how would they have taken such a fantastic shot of the lucky ace tattoo on my ass?”

  You want to see it, don't you? You want to be flashed or see me completely naked? Naked. Always choose naked.

  His wife giggles from behind the magazine she's pretending to read.

  “Really, Soph?” His annoyed expression falls to her. “You do realize laughing does not help this situation.”

  “What situation?” Sophia snips on another snicker, dropping the object back into her lap. “Kellan was simply....being Kellan.”

  “You're defending him?”

  “No,” she says slowly and looks up to lock eyes with him. “I'm just saying he has a point. It's not as if he married a stripper or did something worse like burn down a church in the middle of Sunday service-”

  I extend my legs across the red cushioning of the love seat. “Are you saying if I burn down a church not on a Sunday that's acceptable?”

  Sophia rolls her eyes.

  Did you not feel as if that was valid information to know? Oh relax. I would never burn down a church. I prefer my media attention to center around my clothing or lack thereof.

  “Your brother was simply having a little fun.”

  “Something I swear you used to be,” I tease.

  They say blondes have more fun. Truth is...we really do. Between my hair, my bright blue eyes, and my toned muscles from a timeless love affair with lacrosse, let's just say the fun never stops coming my direction with open legs. Or mouths. Rarely hands. I prefer the other options first anyway.

  “Right, Soph? He used to be fun, didn't he? He wasn't always...scowling?”

  She giggles again and my older brother oscillates his glare between us.

  For the most part, looks wise, we're almost identical except that expression on his face has been more prevalent lately. I blame the pressures of being the royal couple. Our entire country, along with several others, is waiting and watching for their next move. Speculating. Scrutinizing. Spreading lies about Soph having surgery to tighten her tummy to keep my brother happy. People gossiping about his wife's choice in winter wear and exercise routines. His decision for them to attend or not attend someone's 'grand' birthday party. When oh when will they finally bare another heir to the throne that isn't anything more than just a title in a long list of other titles? A throne built on mutual assured prosperity that's discussed over brandy regardless of what time it may be. I assume if I cared more about what j thought or gave a damn about what is expected of me, I might frown a little more than I do, which is practically never. Kristopher used to smile quite often too before his love life was all the media wanted to talk about between my father's impeccable ability to soothe strained relationships from our family's past, and my inability to keep the royal jewels in my pants from being shined. Or at least he used to smile...more. According to him, I came out of the womb smiling and have yet to truly stop with the exception of our mother's untimely death.

  “Kristopher is fun. He's just wearing his responsible big brother face,” she brushes away as she turns the page in her magazine.

  “Responsible big brother face or king in training face? Because I swear that's the same face father makes minutes before he begins his loving yelling, or 'shouting' as the rest of the world calls it.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you he has merit to his shouting?” he defensively counters.

  I shake my head with a smirk. “None of my behaviors are new.”

  “Precisely.” His hands wrap around the back of the red couch in our palace library where his wife is sitting. “You may dread the title of Duke and the social responsibilities we carry as Princes, but you have to grow up sometime, Kellan. For Christ sake, you're almost thirty! It's time you start behaving as such.”

  Dread the titles. Dread the social politics. Dread the long list of should dos and never dos. The only thing I don't dread are the royal jets I use as my own private taxi service to fly around the world on every whim I have. Beats the hell out of drowning in an ocean of archaic expectations.

  There's a small pause preceded by Sophia humming, “Perhaps you're right, Kellan. It is his king in training face.”

  My chortle is drowned out by another grunt of annoyance from Kristopher. “Do not agree with him right now, Sophia.”

  “Why?” She glances up. “Because you said so? Because as a lady of the court I should hold my tongue?”

  Her mocking causes me to smile wide.

  I'll admit. It's a guilty pleasure to watch her push back at my brother. It's the reason he married her. She refused to bend to his every whim and carry his opinions as her own. Just makes me laugh in moments like this he seems to forget that.

  “Need I remind you we're not in the 1800s anymore and that you can't behead me for having a different opinion than yours?”

  Playfully, I add, “If you beheaded her who would suck your cock?”

  Her sarcastic look falls to me yet she retorts, “Because that was a problem for the beloved Prince Kristopher before me? If I recall correctly his reputation for being an insufferable ass hound was worse than yours.”

  “I'm in the room.” Kristopher joins the conversation on a pout. “And I may have enjoyed my fair share of the opposite sex-”

  “In the courtyard,” Soph begins to list, “in the pool, on top of your father's-”

  “But,” he clears his throat, “I knew I had to grow up, eventually. Change. Become a more respectable adult and proper pillar for this country.”

  “By marrying the woman with the Jessica Rabbit tattoo on her lower back?”

  Sophia and I laugh while my brother's hands go flying in the air.

  Hey, it's a pretty sexy tattoo. She's lying on her side in that red dress in a very provocative pose. That little beauty is the reason why she's not allowed to wear bikinis in bodies of water outside their separate home on the property. I know Soph looks like a polite, refined, and down-right proper lady, with her elegant asymmetrical dark brown hair cut and natural make up, but if that were the case my brother would've never married her. He gives me hell for being the wild one yet fails to remember once upon a time he could almost give me a run for my money. Almost.

  “All I'm saying, Kellan, is maybe it's time to dial back the behavior? Remember that you represent a royal bloodline, hell an entire country at times. Maybe...be less selfish in the choices you make.”

&nbs
p; As usual his speech begins to bore me and I toss my head backwards to stare at the ceiling. “Fine. I will remember to close the goddamn curtains if it prevents you from giving me another lecture on the repercussions of such an innocent behavior.”

  “Innocent?!” His shriek makes me laugh again.

  Oh it's alright that you did it too. He sounds as if he's sucked back too much helium when it gets that high.

  “Kellan, when do you leave for the states?” Sophia's change of topic pulls my attention back down.

  “Why? Tired of me making your husband's blood pressure rise?”

  She gives me a slight shrug. “If it's not you doing it, it's me.”

  “You? I'm assuming this is bedroom related?”

  Her jaw drops when he cuts her off immediately. “Do not answer that.”

  He plays a prude, but one of these days remind me to tell you about the phone calls our parents received during our time at boarding school for the inappropriate study system we developed. It involved upper class females and maple syrup.

  “When do you leave?” my brother sighs, running his fingers through his freshly cut hair.

  “In the morning,” I announce at the same time I pull my vibrating cell phone out of my navy-blue pants pocket.

  “And you're going just for a week this time?” Soph questions.

  “Roughly. The charity run is on Saturday. I'll return here Sunday morning.”

  Kristopher finally takes a seat beside his wife. “And what are you running for this time? The fight against childhood diabetes? The fight against childhood illiteracy? The fight against childhood petlessness.”

  That last one is not a thing.

  “The Collin Murphy Foundation. They are a research foundation that helps fight childhood cancer. Their main base is here in Fayeweather, but they partner with a slightly smaller sister branch in the states.”

  “Oh, this is the one you do every year,” he recalls, slowly.

  “In deed...” I hum my answer as I open the text message from an unknown number. To my pleasant surprise it's a fair skinned female with her long blonde hair pulled to one side of her face and lips painted bright red to match the push up bra she's sporting.

  The caption underneath reads: Wanna make me a princess?

  Ah. This is one of the strip poker losers. Then again, are there ever really any losers in that game? Who doesn't love to see people naked?

  The grin on my face causes my brother to grunt, “Please, tell me that's not a dirty photo.” When I glance up and expand my smile he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Please, tell me you can at least remember the name of the woman in the photo.”

  Marilyn? Mindy? Melody? Melissa? I'm getting a rather strong M feeling. Doesn't really matter. I'm not gonna call her. Not just because she's trolling to wear a crown like so many of the women I meet, but because it was just a wild weekend at the Walngnaski Ski Resort. Think Vegas in the snow. What happens in Walngnaski stays there....except for whatever the paparazzi parasites manage to document. I.E. my ass through the glass window. In my defense that was the craziest thing I did all weekend unless you consider challenging some American senator's son to a drinking contest crazy...

  Kristopher sighs and shakes his head. “And you wonder why I worry...”

  I don't wonder. Nor do I actually care. As far as I'm concerned I'm just having a little fun. And there's nothing wrong with having a little or in my case an awful lot of fun...What else am I supposed to do to pass the time in my seemingly superficial reality? Play cards with my dead grandmother's bridge club and pretend it's making a difference? No. Unlike my brother, who has buckled under the pressures of being a Kenningston, I refuse to let my last name rule my entire life. Not now. Not ever.

  Brie

  I hate the youth of America. I really do.

  “And then Becky told Kimmy who told Julie who told Micheal, that I was the one who said his girlfriend looked like a troll in that selfie. And I did. But she shouldn't have told her! Becky swore she wouldn't!” The thin fourteen-year-old squeaks to the girl beside her as they move forward in the check-out line. “Becky is lucky I don't post on Facebook about what she did with Julie's boyfriend while she was away with her family snowboarding.”

  “ID,” I interrupt, which causes her to glare at me.

  Oh yes. Because I'm slowing down her day.

  She rolls her eyes and reaches into her designer bag. Unable to immediately grab it, she drops her purse and it accidentally lands on the edge of her tray. Like the world's worst catapult, it launches a horrific combination of ingredients straight at my face. Caesar salad dressing and raspberry applesauce trickles down my glasses while I wipe away spinach leaves from my cheeks.

  I fucking hate my job.

  The laughter of the teens in line erupts at the same time strips of lemon herb chicken comically drop from my hairnet.

  Yes. As a fucking lunch lady I actually have to wear a hairnet. Health requirements. Don't think this is what they originally had in mind for the reason it needed to be a necessity.

  “Um, hello,” the bratty brunette whines.

  I open my eyes to see her displeased expression.

  She's upset? Did I just shower her with food in a room full of adolescents who can't wait to post about this on Instagram or Snapchat or Look At Me As I Go? Not exactly how I want my face across the internet...Not that I ever really want my face across the internet.

  “I need a napkin,” she huffs. “It's on my shoe...”

  My eyes glance at the shoes that probably cost half if not my entire pay check. Before I'm even give a chance to possibly lose my outwardly calm disposition, one of the older cafeteria women, Bernice, places a hand on my shoulder. “Go get cleaned up, Brie. I'll handle it from here.”

  With a smile of gratitude, I whisper, “Thank you.”

  She hums, steps in my place, and says in a sassy voice, “You can get your own napkin on your way to get a new plate of food. Next!”

  I wade through lingering groups of teens where the giggles seem to be growing, straight for the employee’s restroom in the back.

  You're probably wondering what exactly had to go wrong in my life to make me decide to take a job as a cafeteria worker at a private school, right? Well, that makes two of us. But you want the truth? It's the pay and flexibility. My main priorities at this point in life are finally graduating and being able to pay for it. Ollander Academy has given me wiggle room to do just that. You see, it's not just a simple private school. No. From what I understand you have to be on the waiting list for this place by the time you're fresh out of diapers. The tuition alone is high enough to rival what I've been scraping to pay in my college education and the interview process for both parents as well as students is on par with the hoops you go through trying to work for Google. While you've seen the obvious downside to such an elitist school, the upside is they pay their employees more than you'd expect and I don't just mean the teachers. Most of us not in the classroom make what the average teacher does in the public school system. They basically hired me to be a fill in. An extra pair of hands to help cover vacation days, sick days, and any other cafeteria grunt work they could conjure up around my class schedule. For the record. Oven cleaning? Bout as much fun as a routine vaginal exam. Haven't had one of those since I got an IUD put in three years ago. What? Too personal?

  After using a damp paper towel to wipe myself down and glass cleaner for my glasses, I head towards for the front, thankful this is the final round of lunch being served. As soon as she spots me, Bernice motions her hand for me to help in the back instead. Relief instantly washes over me.

  Would you really wanna be the subject that breaks up their afternoon gossiping about who is cheating with who? I didn't think so. And yes, they're always that vicious. I've been here since August, and I'll be the first to say teenagers are mean. Both boys and girls. That's right. The guys are just as cruel verbally and physically. The worst part about the whole experience isn't even the mind-boggling way they treat ea
ch other, it's the fucked up way they treat us. Like we're all just servants for their whims. You wouldn't believe how many of these private school teens treat the staff like we work directly for them. Like they're at home and their parents could walk in to fire us for not bending to their demands. It's disheartening to say the least. Awe. Don't worry too hard. Just a few more months of this, and I'll be free to pick a job that's less torture. Or at the very least will have the opportunity to.

  The rest of my shift consists of prepping a few items for the opening breakfast crew, washing the dishes along with drying them, wiping down all the tables once the room is empty, and cleaning the floor. By the time I'm pulling into a parking space at my apartment complex, my feet are debating whether or not to just fall off in defeat. It takes a moment longer than I want to collect the items that fell out of my bag when I was forced to make an abrupt stop in rush hour traffic, but it's the digging for my disappeared cell phone that pushes my lingering irritation over the edge.